The Wrong Side of Eternity
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: "So... what? Sleepwalking, teleportation, wormhole in the motel room?"
1. Chapter 1

** The Wrong Side of Eternity**

** A/N: This story is dedicated to silverblaze85, who succeeded in the nearly impossible task of teaching me how to vaguely understand what I'm doing on LiveJournal.**

**There should be about four chapters. And there's some swearing, 'cause they're Winchesters. **

**Set in season one.**

**XXX**

**Chapter One**

The first time it happens, Sam is pissed.

After a few moments of disorientation, of mild panic and what-the-hell-holy-shit-it's-cold, he regains enough mental clarity to get angry because seriously, this is going way too far.

He's not even wearing shoes or a coat or anything. Just the sweats and t-shirt he went to sleep in, and the rain might only be an apathetic mist rather than actual drops but he's still soaked to the skin when he wakes up, and really, this is exactly why he tries so hard not to let Dean suck him into these things because it's stupid and childish and Dean always crosses the line.

The alleyway is dark and there's a dumpster nearby that reeks like it hasn't been emptied in months and Sam guesses that Dean chose it because there's a payphone across the street and, no matter how Sam feels at the moment, Dean's not such a complete asshole that he'd leave him in the middle of no where without a way to contact him.

It's still not much of a comfort as Sam trudges across the road, socks squelching in puddles, letting the anger build as he alternates between trying to come up with the cruelest prank he can think of and considering the merits of telling Dean that this is it, he's done with these juvenile wars and he's never going to let Dean drag him into one ever again.

Really, all he did was load Dean's burger with hot sauce. A _lot_ of hot sauce, but even so, he thought it was pretty mild seeing as it was in response to Dean putting bleach in his shampoo, resulting in hair that was almost white at the roots and a mottled combination of ginger and brown everywhere else, which, Sam clenches his teeth, he's still sporting two days later because he's broke and Dean refuses to lend him the money to dye it back, and while he's on this whole hating Dean trip he may as well mention that he is completely and utterly _over_ seeing Dean's face break out in that smug little smirk every time his eyes flick up towards Sam's hair, which is pretty damn often because, Sam has to admit, the results of Dean's prank are pretty damn eye-catching. The whole damn town seems to be in agreement there.

Dean's cell rings for longer than Sam would like, while he shivers in the phone booth, eyes scanning warily around him. He can just picture his git of a brother sitting warm and dry in the Impala somewhere nearby, watching him with that same dumb smirk on his face as he lets the phone ring just to torment Sam further.

"'lo?" Dean's voice finally answers, rough with sleep, and Sam can feel himself getting ready to explode because the jerk fell asleep – he_ fell asleep_ – which means he hasn't even been keeping an eye out to make sure Sam was safe during this worst prank of all time.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam spits out furiously, sweeping his dripping bangs off his forehead as his other hand clenches the phone so hard that it's in very real danger of snapping in two. "There is something seriously messed up in your head, you know that? You really think this is _funny_?"

"Sam?" Dean asks, doing a good impression of sleepy, confused innocence, which just makes Sam madder.

"I mean, how did you even pull it off, Dean? You spike my coffee with sleeping pills or something?" Because there's no way he would have slept through Dean's manhandling otherwise. "That's just so far over the line and you know it. Damn it, Dean, you better come get me right now or I swear to God-"

"Come get you?" There's a rustle of movement over the phone line and suddenly Dean sounds a lot more awake. "Sam, what the hell? It's 3am, where the hell are you?"

Something in Dean's voice makes Sam pause. There's genuine surprise and concern in there, buried under confusion, and Dean might be a good actor but Sam doesn't think he's _that_ good.

"Sam?" Dean asks, a little more urgent now, and Sam's not so sure about anything anymore.

"You, uh..." Sam struggles to find words and a small thrill of fear sneaks up his back as he takes in his surroundings with fresh eyes. It seems darker than it did a moment ago when he still thought Dean was hiding in the shadows, ready to take him back to the motel and gloat over his cleverness, and the mist and silence seems eerie. "You're not pranking me?"

"Pranking you?" And that does it. No way would Dean go to all this effort and not take credit for it. "Sam, where are you?"

Sam's head is spinning. "I don't know," he manages. "I thought you knew."

"What? You go for an unscheduled midnight stroll and I'm supposed to know where you are? What the hell's going on, Sam?"

Sam swallows, eyes flicking around nervously. He suddenly feels tremendously exposed in the phone booth, without weapons, without even shoes, for Christs sake.

"I don't know," Sam says again, dropping his voice in case someone – or something – is listening, lurking somewhere out of sight. "Dean, can you come get me, please?"

There's a pause before Dean answers and Sam knows his apprehension has come through because Dean's voice slips into the calm and soothing 'big brother mode' when he replies, "I'm already in the car, Sammy, just tell me where to go."

It takes a few moments for Sam to locate a street sign and then he actually has to leave the phone booth so he can get close enough to read it in the dim light, which sucks because as exposed as he felt in the booth, with Dean's voice in his ear, it's nothing compared to how he feels out in the open with nothing but the sound of rain for company. Of course, Sam knows it's a false comfort; if something did decide to jump out and eat him the phone booth wouldn't be much help. What was he planning to do? Beat the thing over the head with the handset? Or hold the phone up so Dean could yell at it?

"Argentine Street." He can hear Dean rustling through maps for a moment.

"Shit, Sam, that's clear across town. How the hell did you get there?"

Sam shivers, wrapping an arm around himself as if that will somehow stop his clothes from being soaked through. "I dunno. I just... woke up."

"Okay, just hang tight, Sammy, I'll be there in fifteen."

Dean gets there in twelve, which Sam figures means he blasted every speed limit between here and the motel, which he would usually nag – Dean's word, not his – Dean about because, unwanted attention and all that, but he can't feel anything but grateful when the Impala pulls up right next to the phone booth he's now huddled on the floor of, trying to preserve body heat.

"Sam?" Dean's out of the car before Sam can even stand up, so he figures he's not the only one who's a bit freaked by this random incident of teleportation. "You okay?"

Sam takes the offered hand and hauls himself up. "Yeah. Just cold... and confused."

Dean runs his eyes over Sam critically, checking for injuries as if Sam might be hiding them for some reason. Satisfied that Sam's in one piece he turns back to the Impala, pushing Sam ahead of him.

"Come on, lets get you back to the motel."

The car's warm and Dean turns the heater up as soon as Sam climbs in, then he reaches back and pulls a blanket out of no where – no doubt one they've liberated from some nameless motel somewhere along the line – and tosses it to Sam before he pulls back out onto the road.

There's silence for a while as Sam wraps himself in the blanket and takes comfort in the warmth and the hum of the engine, Dean's solid presence beside him.

Finally Dean clears his throat. "So, what? You sleepwalk now?"

Sam watches the scenery pass. "Seems like a long way to sleepwalk," he says dully.

Dean's eyes are on the road, hands tight around the steering wheel. Sam frowns at the tension rolling off his brother. It's not quite the something-freaky-just-happened tension he was expecting, although there's that, too. Sam opens his mouth to ask but Dean beats him to it.

"You really thought I'd do this?" Dean blurts out, hurt buried under indignation. "Just dump you in an alleyway?"

Oh. "Well, it's not like you've never crossed the line before, Dean," Sam reminds him.

Dean's gaze flits upwards to Sam's hair. "Oh, come on, so I played a little hairdresser. I'm not stupid enough to..." Dean coughs awkwardly. "I wouldn't put you in danger, Sammy. Give me some credit here."

Sam pulls the blanket tighter around himself. It's definitely a lot harder to imagine his big brother pulling this kind of stunt now that he's in the car next to him, now that he can see the worried creases around Dean's mouth and the concerned furrow of his brow.

"So... what? Sleepwalking, teleportation, wormhole in the motel room?"

Dean doesn't even bother rolling his eyes but his lips set in a determined line. "Dunno, but we're gonna figure this out."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**The Wrong Side of Eternity**

**Chapter Two**

**XXX**

The second time Sam wakes up in the alley, it's two days after the first time and they're no where near figuring out what that was about, despite their thorough research into the motel, the alleyway itself and the surrounding streets and buildings.

They had looked into the haunting that had brought them to town in the first place, even though they'd wrapped that up the day before Sam turned up in the alley, and disposed of the locket the ghost was attached to. There was nothing more than the faintest flicker of EMF detected in the previously-haunted house. Dean had checked it out thoroughly while Sam was at the library, finding out a whole bunch of nothing.

The alleyway itself was located in a pretty nothing part of town, within walking distance of the towns only club but far enough away that not many people hang around there. The factory that makes up one of the alleyway walls shut down a couple of years ago for entirely non-supernatural reasons and the building on the other side is apparently a ballet studio that's closed for the holidays. Behind them is a small field and beyond that is what could optimistically be called a forest.

Further down Argentine Street is a smattering of houses, and there's nothing at all about any of it that raises any red flags or causes any kind of suspicion or answers any of their questions.

Sam had been, rather pointlessly, hoping that it was some kind of freakish one-off, never to be repeated and hopefully with some sort of rational explanation that they would soon find if they kept looking, which, he concedes when he wakes up in the pouring rain in the dark and pungent alleyway, really was pointless, because seriously, when does he ever get that lucky? (If you can call only magically teleporting to a random alleyway _once_ lucky.)

This time Sam doesn't get pissed because he knows this isn't Dean's fault. It's probably _his_ fault, if he's honest with himself because _he's_ the one with the freaky powers and, because he can never catch a break, this is probably something to do with them. Because it's been a while since he moved that cabinet with his _mind_, since he saw things happen before they actually _did_, so obviously it's about time something else stupid and crazy and _not normal_ happened to him, because apparently that's just what his life's going to be like now.

Sam rubs rain water off his face, his sigh misting the air in front of him as he draws himself out of the puddle he's been lying in. The alleyway seems colder than it should be for the time of year but then, he's not usually wandering round soaking wet in the middle of the night (well, sometimes he does but he tends to be dressed in more than a t-shirt and sweatpants), so feeling colder than normal is to be expected, and his throat hurts, like he's been screaming. Which he hasn't... he doesn't think. He supposes that he can't really be sure of anything. He's probably getting sick from sleeping in the rain, which is just fucking perfect.

Sam wonders, as he trudges towards the phone booth, how he went from being a college student with a promising future in law and a girl he was going to marry, to being the kind of person who wakes up in alleyways with no idea how he got there.

It's just not fair.

XXX

Dean is pulled from a perfectly acceptable dream involving a voluptuous red-head and a giant tub of vanilla ice cream by the tinny sound of his cellphone trilling out the beginning chords of _Smoke on the Water_, and as reluctant as he is to leave Michelle alone and... moist as she is, he's wide awake at the first vibration and a glance at Sam's empty bed has him on his feet in an instant, phone pressed to his ear.

"Sam?" Where the hell are his boots? "Where are you?"

"Phone booth on Argentine Street. Again." Dean can hear Sam's teeth chattering through the phone lines, even over the sound of rain pounding on the phone booths roof.

"You okay?" Dean stumbles over one of his boots while he's lunging for his jacket, cursing in his head. He leaves the laces undone and _Goddamn_, is it pouring outside.

"Yeah. Just... Dean, what's happening to me?"

Dean can't give Sam answers. All he can do is drive.

It takes what feels like an eternity to get across town. He doesn't like the idea of Sam being alone out there. Sure, Sam's not exactly defenseless. He's managed to take Dean down a few times while sparring, but the things that lurk in the darkness don't exactly fight fair and hand-to-hand isn't enough if you're actually fighting hand-to-claw and dealing with something that needs silver or salt or fire to be taken out, and Dean has no idea what it is they're actually dealing with here.

It's not hard to spot Sam curled in the bottom of the phone booth, even through the rain. He's only wearing the sweats and black t-shirt he went to bed in, wet clothes sticking to his skin, and his new multi-coloured hair is plastered to his forehead. Dean feels a small pang of guilt at the sight. He would have gotten Sam some dye to fix it by now if they hadn't been so distracted (well, he would have at least _thought_ about getting some, or thought of something hilariously cruel that he could convince Sammy to do by using hair dye as a bribe). Sure, it had been funny at the time – seeing Sam stomp around in full on bitch mode was always amusing – but right now it only seems to make the kid look more miserable.

Sam struggles to his feet and is opening the Impala's door before Dean even has it pulled to a complete stop. Kid must really be cold, or scared. Dean wouldn't blame him.

"You okay?" Dean asks, eyes shifting up and down but he can't see any blood and Sam's not moving like he's hurt.

Sam nods distractedly as he tugs the blanket around himself.

"That's twice now," he reminds Dean needlessly as they drive back to the motel, streetlights causing the rain on his skin to glisten as he shivers. "There must be something about that alleyway."

Dean clears his throat, watching the road intently as if it's not 3am with fuck all traffic, "Maybe we should just leave town. We finished the hunt, there's nothing keeping us here. We could just... go." And no, he's totally _not_ suggesting that they run away. Just... if it solves the problem then what's wrong with that?

Sam's drying his hair with a towel he's found under the seat, frowning absently at the golden bangs that hang in his face. "Might just mean you'd have further to drive to come get me. We need to figure this out."

Dean snorts his discontent as he pulls into the motel parking lot, trying not to imagine being hours away from Sam and that stupid alleyway. "Well, I'm all for that. You got any info you're not sharing with me? 'Cause I'm drawing a blank. If you want to hang around we're gonna have to start tying you to the bed."

"You're not tying me to the bed," Sam says, sounding unimpressed.

The conversation halts briefly as they both exit the Impala and make a dash through the rain to their room.

"You got a better idea?" Dean asks when they're safely inside, picking up where they left off. "You can't keep this up, Sam. Wandering around in the rain at night – you'll get sick, or hurt. What if you end up somewhere different and have no way to call me? Or if whatever's causing this decides it's time to meet up? We don't know what this is. Anything could be hanging round that alley, or in the forest across the field. We can't just risk... What the hell?"

While Dean's been talking, Sam's been wrestling his way out of his wet clothes. He's just pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it towards the bathroom when Dean notices the dark marks around his neck.

He ignores Sam's bewildered half-protest as he drags his brother closer to the lamp so he can see better, and there it is. He's seen this kind of bruising on Sam before – too often, because Sam apparently has some kind of choking fetish or at least, every second monster they come across seems to think so, and Dean can make out a clear imprint of a thumb and the rest of a partial hand print across his throat.

"What?" Sam asks, "What is it?"

"You forget to mention the part where someone strangled you?" Dean asks, trying to play it cool as he wills his heart to stop the frantic pace the marks have inspired.

"What?" Sam spins away from Dean and strides to the bathroom, flicking on the light. Dean follows and stands in the doorway as Sam inspects his reflection.

"I don't..." Sam starts, confused frown turning to Dean and he trails off with a shrug. "I don't know, Dean." He bites his lip anxiously, hand raised to lightly skim his throat. "This is freaking me out."

Dean stands up straighter. It's a subconscious thing, this 'big brother mode' that Sam teases him about. Sam says he's freaked and Dean reacts by automatically acting like he's not.

"We're gonna figure this out, Sammy," he soothes, all casual confidence that he doesn't quite feel. "Just get changed and get some sleep. We'll sort it out in the morning."

Sam gives the mirror one more long glance, before he sighs and heads out of the bathroom. Dean claps him on the shoulder in a way he hopes is reassuring as he passes and they both go about getting ready for bed.

Neither of them get any sleep.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Wrong Side of Eternity**

**Chapter Three**

**XXX**

They don't sort it out in the morning. Or the afternoon or the evening. The bruises on Sam's neck have darkened and closer inspection has found similar marks on his wrists.

Sam's a nervous bundle of energy, fueled by too much caffeine, bouncing from the laptop to Dad's journal, pouring over his notes from the library and back again as if he'll find some new information by reading through stuff they've already studied at length.

Dean's at a loss. There's nothing. Aside from the haunting that brought them here, the town's clean. No unsolved murders, no missing people. There's a smattering of quirky accidental deaths but nothing suspicious and none of them link to the alleyway or the buildings around it.

It's nearly 2am when Dean notices Sam fighting a losing battle with sleep, despite the litres of coffee he's ingested. Usually he can last longer but Dean figures the kid hasn't exactly been getting a full nights rest lately.

"Sam."

Sam's head bobs up, frowning first at the laptop as if trying to figure out what he was doing with it, then registering that Dean had made an attempt at his attention and turning his bleary gaze to him. "Huh?"

"You need to sleep."

Sam looks at the laptop as if he expects an answer to flash across the screen, "No, I can't. I need to..." He trails off at the sound of clinking metal and turns back to Dean apprehensively. "Dean..."

Dean fingers the handcuffs he's holding. "Look, I don't like it either, but you need to sleep and I'm even less fond of the idea of you getting eaten by something while you're snoozing in an alleyway, so..."

Sam chews his lip. Kid always did have an aversion to being tied up. Dean had never quite figured out why that was, but he remembers a 12 year old Sammy looking downright panicked when their dad had them practice getting out of ropes and cuffs by securing their hands to things. Dean hadn't been a fan of those lessons either, if he was honest, but he couldn't deny that they'd been useful.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean nudges gently.

"Fine," Sam sighs, his exhaustion showing in his easy acquiescence. He moves reluctantly over to his bed, not bothering to change. He just tugs off his boots and over-shirt and lies back.

"It's just until we've got his figures out," Dean says, wrapping a t-shirt round Sam's wrist to pad it before snapping the cuffs into place. "Go to sleep. You wont even notice it."

"Easy for you to say," Sam mumbles grumpily, curling up on his side.

"Yeah, I know," Dean replies distractedly, switching off one of the lamps and moving to take Sam's place at the laptop.

XXX

Dean's not sure when he falls asleep but he knows he doesn't mean to. Even with the handcuffs he had planned to stay awake and research until he damn well found something, and it's not like he was going to trust a bit of metal with his brother's life...

Which was a good idea, or would have been if he'd managed to stay awake, because a glance at Sam's bed yields only empty cuffs and crumpled bedsheets.

"Fuck!" Cursing, Dean leaps to his feet. He's still fully dressed so it doesn't take long to get out to the Impala. Sam hasn't called yet but Dean's pretty damn sure of where he's going to be.

It's not raining too hard tonight, but the air is damp and chilled. Dean's breath mists in front of him as he hurries to the Impala, fumbling keys, and he pulls out onto the street in a screech of tyres, mumbling apologies to the car as he does so. It's _Sam_, though, so he knows his baby understands the urgency.

The phone booth is empty when he pulls up, which isn't surprising because his cellphone has stayed silent for the whole drive. Dean locks the Impala, hurriedly grabs an assortment of weapons from the trunk, just in case, including holy water, a silver knife and the rock salt-loaded shotgun, and half-sprints into the alleyway.

He spots Sam about halfway down, slumped against the wall of the old factory, head down.

"Sam!" Dean drops to his knees in front of his brother, eyes warily scanning the shadows for any sign of movement but all is still and silent around them.

"Sam." Dean reaches out a hand and shakes him lightly.

Sam's head bobs up, blinking vaguely, "What..."

"Sam? You with me?"

Sam looks around the alley, awareness gradually returning. He turns back to Dean. "Where are we, Jeremy? This isn't my motel."

Worry bleeds into Dean's gut and his gaze rises to Sam's mop of multi-coloured curls, searching for any obvious head injuries.

"Where are we?" Sam asks again. There's something off about his voice, kind of slurred and just... wrong.

"Sam, wake up already," Dean says unsteadily, even though Sam looks pretty awake.

Sam struggles to his feet, Dean rising with him. "This isn't funny, Jeremy. You know I've had too much to drink. I wanna go back to the motel."

"You're not making sense, Sam. It's me. It's Dean." Dean reaches out and gives Sam another shake.

"Stop it!" Sam cries. "I wanna go!"

The inflections are wrong, the pitch slightly higher, and Dean knows - he knows even though he doesn't want it to be true – that it's not his brother talking. There's something speaking_ through _Sam. It's gotta be a spirit. It must have been a spirit this whole time and Dean curses himself for not bringing Sam along when he checked out that previously haunted house. He's betting that if he'd just pointed the EMF detector at Sam, it would have lit up like a Christmas tree.

And how the hell did it get passed the salt lines anyway? Unless it didn't have to 'cause it somehow got Sam to cross them himself...

"Okay. Okay," Dean says, running a hand through his hair as he backs off slightly. He'll work out the logistics later. "Just calm down, okay?"

Sam doesn't calm down, or rather, the thing inside him doesn't. It doesn't react to Dean's words at all, like it hasn't heard them. Instead, Sam reels as if he's just been hit, falling back against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Sam gasps, in that voice that's his but not, a hand cradling his cheek as stunned eyes peer through his bangs at the space just to the left of Dean. "Don't-"

Sam's cut off as he's slammed back against the wall, head hitting with a resounding crack.

"Jesus!" Dean leaps forward to catch him as he falls and Sam's hitting at him, screaming and sobbing, and Christ, this isn't like any spirit possession Dean's seen before. It's like the ghost's not even aware that it's in a new body and it's just replaying events of the past, and if Dean wasn't fucking terrified before, he is now, because the spirit's playing out it's own murder and Sam's the one taking the blows.

It's time for quick thinking. He's got the rock salt-loaded shotgun but damned if he's going to shoot Sam with it. It'll take a minute to get back to the Impala where there's a huge bag of salt but – Sam jerks back again and Dean just barely stops him from smashing his head – it might be a minute Sam doesn't have.

But spending time working out the pros and cons isn't getting him anywhere, and the bag of salt is really the only option he has, so Dean forces himself to move away from Sam and sprints back to the Impala, splashing through puddles as the frigid air stings his face.

The salt's heavy – it's a huge bag – but Dean's carried heavier (his brother included) and it barely slows him down on the way back.

Sam's pinned against the wall, fingers scrabbling at invisible hands around his neck and Dean can tell by the lack of noise that he can't breathe at all.

Dean tears the bag of salt open with his teeth, spitting out the foul-tasting crystals as he up-ends the bag over Sam's head.

The salt hits and sizzles with a hiss and then Sam's dropping forwards, hitting the concrete on his hands and knees as he gasps in lung fulls of air.

Dean tosses the bag aside without a second thought, hands moving to brace Sam's shoulders.

"Sam, hey, it's okay, you're okay. Come on, look at me, Sammy, look at me."

And Sam looks up, still heaving in deep breaths, and Dean knows even before he speaks that he's got his brother back.

"It's okay," Sam rasps, hand reaching out shakily to brace himself on Dean's arm. "It's okay. I know where she is."

**TBC**

**A/N: Just the Epilogue to go now **


	4. Chapter 4

**The Wrong Side of Eternity**

**Epilogue**

**XXX**

They find her in the forest.

The sky is just starting to lighten when they reach the spot, Dean carrying a shovel over his shoulder and Sam wrapped up in Dean's jacket, damp salt clinging to his hair, weaving unsteadily. He'd refused to go back to the motel to change and rest like Dean had tried to insist. It was close; Dean was ready to drag Sam back and tie him to the bed again if that's what it took to keep him there, but Sam had looked at him with haunted, exhausted eyes and murmured, 'Dean, please... I just want this finished,' and Dean had caved.

Not that Dean let Sam do any digging. By the time Sam stops and announces that this is the place, he's swaying where he stands, skin frighteningly close to gray, and he doesn't even protest when Dean gently pushes him down. The ground's damp but Dean doesn't think Sam could get any wetter at this point, and if he stands Dean can tell that he's just going to fall down anyway.

The bones are years old, the flesh gone, rotted or gnawed off by scavengers, lying forgotten and abandoned under layers of dirt and mouldering leaves. She's not buried deep and Dean can only assume that she wasn't found before now because no one was looking for her, until she came looking for Sam.

Sam's leaning against a tree, his hair falling over his face in damp rat-tails as he looks down at the remains.

"She was so scared," he says, his voice dull with fatigue.

At least it's _Sam's_ voice now, Dean thinks, and then, _I know_, because he can't quite manage to stop hearing that other voice, pleading and crying.

"Do you know who did it?" Dean asks. He has a name; Jeremy, but that's not a lot to go on.

Sam shakes his head wearily. "I don't think she wanted me to find him. I think she just wanted me to find her."

It doesn't seem like enough. Dean knows revenge, the sorting of clues and the putting down of monsters, but a glance at Sam lets him know that that isn't going to be the case this time. Sam's shattered. He barely managed the walk out here, only Winchester determination pushing him forward, and Dean knows that he just wants this to be over.

There should be justice. For the girl these bones belong to, and for Sam, who was forced to live it too, but Dean's learned by now that sometimes things just need to be put to rest.

"So... salt'n'burn?" he asks, cautiously because he's not sure how Sam wants to go about this. It's not their usual sort of haunting. The ghost's not hurting people, apart from Sam but it would be just like Sam to overlook that part. Hell, it's not even technically a ghost because they haven't actually seen an apparition. It's just, like... what? An energy that's still hanging around? A memory that can't let go? Dean doesn't know, the whole thing's giving him a headache, but he is sure as hell that he'd feel a lot better if he was certain that this chick wasn't going to be dragging Sam into dark alleyways ever again.

But, Sam might be wanting to go the whole anonymous phone call to the cops, get the hell out of dodge before the body's found route. Which, though it's not Dean's preferred option in this case, might be all that's needed.

He's relieved when Sam just nods and makes a 'go ahead' motion with his hand.

They don't know her name, or where she came from or what her life was like. They only know how it ended and Dean can't help but feel that him and Sam make up a pretty sorry funeral party. It strikes him as odd because he never feels much for the people he's put to rest. Maybe it's because he saw her terror in Sam's eyes.

The sun has risen in the sky by the time the bones have been reduced to ash, scattering light in smoke amongst the sparse trees. It's probably the calmest salt and burn they've ever been on. Dean's been keeping the shotgun ready but no angry spirit appeared to try and fight them off. Maybe she hadn't been angry. If Sam is right, and on things like this he usually is, she was just scared.

Dean nudges Sam's shoulder lightly with his knee before helping him up from the ground. "Come on, I'll pick you up some hair dye on the way back to the motel."

Sam blinks, swaying slightly from the change of altitude, and runs a hand over his hair like he'd forgotten about the state of it.

"What colour this time?" he asks, still sounding drained but he manages a small half-smile of amusement and Dean knows he's been forgiven.

Dean slings an arm around Sam's back, all casual brotherly affection (and if he's doing a better job of keeping Sam on his feet than Sam is neither of them are going to mention it). "I'll find one that matches your natural colour, I promise. There's gotta be one called Auburn Princess, right?"

Sam shoves at his chest lightly, managing to throw them both off balance for a precarious moment.

"You sure you don't want to try something more exotic?" Dean asks once he's steadied them both. "Sultry redhead, maybe?"

"Shut up, Dean."

**END**


End file.
